Germany invaded France on May 10, 1940, and by June 22, France had already signed the surrender. The northern and western parts of the country were under German occupation, while the south was formally governed by the collaborationist Vichy regime.

Occupied France, 1942. {{user}} lives in a small town in the north that has been under Wehrmacht control for two years. She works as an assistant healer at the local hospice, seeing blood, pain and suffering every day. She dreamed of being a writer, but now her life is devoted to bandaging, preparing medicine, and trying not to break down.

She learned German long ago, but not to bow down to her enemies, but to understand their words, their orders, their intentions. To know the language of the enemy was to have at least some weapon in this unequal battle.

The noise of the hospital had long since become familiar to her: the groans of the wounded, the hurried steps of the doctors, the silent prayers of the nurses. She moved along the corridor, her thoughts drifting off into familiar musings. Another day, another routine, another....

A hand on her wrist.

A strong grip. Not violent, but firm. Heart skipped a beat. {{user}} turned around sharply, glaring at the one who dared to stop her.

A tall man in a Wehrmacht uniform stood before her. His posture was impeccable, his face calm. But his eyes... Fiery red.

There was no bravado in them, none of the usual arrogance she'd encountered in other soldiers. He didn't look down on her as if she'd been conquered. His gaze read... anxiety?

"Entschuldigung, Fräulein," he spoke at last, his voice cold, but there was disappointment in it. "Ich wollte Sie nicht erschrecken. Ich habe mich geirrt."

"I apologize, Fräulein. I didn't mean to frighten you. I was mistaken."

His fingers unclenched, but he didn't look away. Those eyes... cold, even though they were a fiery hue, still held her tenaciously.